Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Papa Don't Take No Mess
This clip doesn't reveal James Brown's huge influence on the late Michael Jackson, but is good nonetheless. I'm trying to find again the entirety of this concert, it is nothing less than incredible. I might only play James Brown at my next party. You've been warned.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Marry me, Frank Rich
Ahhh after a much-needed 12 hours of sleep to recover from Pride weekend, I woke up to read this. While I still find calling the Gay Rights movement the Civil Rights movement of our era slightly uncomfortable, Rich outlines the clear historical connections between the two fights for equality.
Also, the anecdote that the Times didn't allow the use of the word gay until 1987 is stunning.
Also, the anecdote that the Times didn't allow the use of the word gay until 1987 is stunning.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael's MJ Grammy Tribute Predictions
1. Jack White - The Love You Save
2. My Chemical Romance feat Lil Wayne - Thriller
3. Jonas Bros feat Stevie Wonder - ABC
4. Chris Martin and Toby Keith - that song from that movie about a rat
5. Velvet Revolver feat Kanye West and Alicia Keys - Beat It
6. Tom Petty - Black or White
7. Rascal Flatts, Kid Rock and Dave Grohl - Smooth Criminal
He "guarantees two of these will happen." I am partial to numbers one and six.
2. My Chemical Romance feat Lil Wayne - Thriller
3. Jonas Bros feat Stevie Wonder - ABC
4. Chris Martin and Toby Keith - that song from that movie about a rat
5. Velvet Revolver feat Kanye West and Alicia Keys - Beat It
6. Tom Petty - Black or White
7. Rascal Flatts, Kid Rock and Dave Grohl - Smooth Criminal
He "guarantees two of these will happen." I am partial to numbers one and six.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Read this aloud for maximum pleasure.
SNAKE IN THE HOUSE
By JANICE LYNCH SCHUSTER
I am morbidly afraid of the six-foot long black snake — a rat snake, some call it — that
has taken up residence in my garage and on the deck that wraps around the house. In the garage, he suspended himself from my file cabinet; on the deck, he appears to favor a gutter, the ledge of the roof, the railing. He is not easily startled into retreat, and screaming, sword-fighting children do not drive him from his perch, nor does a barking Westie.
I believe the snake was the likely culprit who ate a nest full of house wrens that I had been admiring and observing for a few weeks. I believe he has returned now because the poor wren has, too. And though she thinks she has created a safe nest for her chicks — high in a lantern that dangles from the awning by my front door, surrounded by glass on all sides, with just the smallest hole through which she delivers food and herself. But the snake is wilier than that. I can picture him, twisted around the gutter, dangling over the awning, stretching his thin snake head into the nest and creating utter havoc.
I am so afraid of approaching the area where the snake lives that I have all-but-abandoned the fuschia and pansies that line the deck, the pots full of lemon thyme and sage, the heliotrope, and more. It is not that I want to see them suffer a parched death, but that I am so paralyzed by the snake’s presence that I cannot act against it.
I have now assembled a collection of toy swords which I keep at several outdoor-leading doors. I grab these when I must leave the house, although I don’t know what I’d do with them if the snake actually came near. Bash myself in the head and faint is my guess. I am like the petrified characters in Harry Potter, overwhelmed by the presence of the Basilisk which lives within the castle walls. Only Harry Potter can understand what the snake has to say—and only Harry dares answer back. Others, upon making eye contact, are simply paralyzed.
And because I am a poet, I have made the snake a metaphor for what has been going on in my house now for years — mostly alcohol abuse among teenagers, with a bit of reefer thrown in for good measure. And though I have heard the whispers and the late-night scurrying, although I have seen the evidence and the bodies, I have been frozen by the Basilisk of substance use and abuse. When I tried to act, I was thwarted: I confiscated cellphones and drivers licenses, weekend privileges and Internet access, all to no avail. I tried to console myself, thinking that it was my imagination, making the snake more fearsome than it really was. I tried to reason that the kids were just being kids, and the temptation they were being offered—alcohol and not an apple—was nearly irresistible, given our culture and the easy availability of fake driver’s licenses.
As I do with the snake on the deck, I’d react: screaming and shouting, flailing my parental tools. And the snake of their abuse remained nonplussed, wrapped around the heart of our house like the real snake, threaded through the lattice of our gate. I talked to other parents, who acknowledged similar troubles in their homes. We tried to dismiss it as a rite of passage, even as we prayed that they not get caught by the police — or by overuse and abuse, by illness and death.
It did not seem to matter how much or how often I confiscated the goods, more always seemed to appear. And it did not seem to matter which bad-influence kids I barred from my house, more were always there to take their place. The drug and alcohol use was just like the big rat snake, living around my deck and in my garage, terrifying me not so much by what it actually did — but by what it might yet do, by the very fact of its presence.
Finally, in April, I decided I could no longer react with fear and disgust. Instead, I had to take the snake on and kill it, I felt, or be killed by it. The snake of abuse was on the verge of killing one of my children — if not killing her, then certainly damaging her for the rest of her life. And, as I had every other time that circumstances or the world threatened the children’s safety and lives, I acted, quickly and decisively. I learned the snake’s awful language, and spoke its terrible tongue.
I insisted that first one child and then another be admitted to a substance-abuse recovery program, a residential program that specializes in treating children, like mine, who are alcoholics and drug addicts. Just writing that is painful and foreign; it is as difficult as speaking in the snake’s tongue. The language of addiction is full of loss — lost opportunities, lost lives, lost potential, lost families, lost time. Now both children are in what is called recovery — they have been clean and sober, one for about eight weeks and the other for scarcely more than two.
But every journey begins with a small step. Now that the snake is no longer living here, whispering for them to come away, perhaps they stand a chance of speaking a new tongue, one in which they value themselves and their lives, one that they are proud to speak, that others hear, that no one fears. May their recovery be like the hawk who circles around my house, always waiting for just the right moment to make off with the snake and be done with it. I am going outside now with my watering can, snake be damned and wrens be songful.
By JANICE LYNCH SCHUSTER
I am morbidly afraid of the six-foot long black snake — a rat snake, some call it — that
has taken up residence in my garage and on the deck that wraps around the house. In the garage, he suspended himself from my file cabinet; on the deck, he appears to favor a gutter, the ledge of the roof, the railing. He is not easily startled into retreat, and screaming, sword-fighting children do not drive him from his perch, nor does a barking Westie.
I believe the snake was the likely culprit who ate a nest full of house wrens that I had been admiring and observing for a few weeks. I believe he has returned now because the poor wren has, too. And though she thinks she has created a safe nest for her chicks — high in a lantern that dangles from the awning by my front door, surrounded by glass on all sides, with just the smallest hole through which she delivers food and herself. But the snake is wilier than that. I can picture him, twisted around the gutter, dangling over the awning, stretching his thin snake head into the nest and creating utter havoc.
I am so afraid of approaching the area where the snake lives that I have all-but-abandoned the fuschia and pansies that line the deck, the pots full of lemon thyme and sage, the heliotrope, and more. It is not that I want to see them suffer a parched death, but that I am so paralyzed by the snake’s presence that I cannot act against it.
I have now assembled a collection of toy swords which I keep at several outdoor-leading doors. I grab these when I must leave the house, although I don’t know what I’d do with them if the snake actually came near. Bash myself in the head and faint is my guess. I am like the petrified characters in Harry Potter, overwhelmed by the presence of the Basilisk which lives within the castle walls. Only Harry Potter can understand what the snake has to say—and only Harry dares answer back. Others, upon making eye contact, are simply paralyzed.
And because I am a poet, I have made the snake a metaphor for what has been going on in my house now for years — mostly alcohol abuse among teenagers, with a bit of reefer thrown in for good measure. And though I have heard the whispers and the late-night scurrying, although I have seen the evidence and the bodies, I have been frozen by the Basilisk of substance use and abuse. When I tried to act, I was thwarted: I confiscated cellphones and drivers licenses, weekend privileges and Internet access, all to no avail. I tried to console myself, thinking that it was my imagination, making the snake more fearsome than it really was. I tried to reason that the kids were just being kids, and the temptation they were being offered—alcohol and not an apple—was nearly irresistible, given our culture and the easy availability of fake driver’s licenses.
As I do with the snake on the deck, I’d react: screaming and shouting, flailing my parental tools. And the snake of their abuse remained nonplussed, wrapped around the heart of our house like the real snake, threaded through the lattice of our gate. I talked to other parents, who acknowledged similar troubles in their homes. We tried to dismiss it as a rite of passage, even as we prayed that they not get caught by the police — or by overuse and abuse, by illness and death.
It did not seem to matter how much or how often I confiscated the goods, more always seemed to appear. And it did not seem to matter which bad-influence kids I barred from my house, more were always there to take their place. The drug and alcohol use was just like the big rat snake, living around my deck and in my garage, terrifying me not so much by what it actually did — but by what it might yet do, by the very fact of its presence.
Finally, in April, I decided I could no longer react with fear and disgust. Instead, I had to take the snake on and kill it, I felt, or be killed by it. The snake of abuse was on the verge of killing one of my children — if not killing her, then certainly damaging her for the rest of her life. And, as I had every other time that circumstances or the world threatened the children’s safety and lives, I acted, quickly and decisively. I learned the snake’s awful language, and spoke its terrible tongue.
I insisted that first one child and then another be admitted to a substance-abuse recovery program, a residential program that specializes in treating children, like mine, who are alcoholics and drug addicts. Just writing that is painful and foreign; it is as difficult as speaking in the snake’s tongue. The language of addiction is full of loss — lost opportunities, lost lives, lost potential, lost families, lost time. Now both children are in what is called recovery — they have been clean and sober, one for about eight weeks and the other for scarcely more than two.
But every journey begins with a small step. Now that the snake is no longer living here, whispering for them to come away, perhaps they stand a chance of speaking a new tongue, one in which they value themselves and their lives, one that they are proud to speak, that others hear, that no one fears. May their recovery be like the hawk who circles around my house, always waiting for just the right moment to make off with the snake and be done with it. I am going outside now with my watering can, snake be damned and wrens be songful.
Nomally I find The Ethicist in the NYT Magazine a pretentious version of Dear Abby -- dry, shallow and prudish. This short piece isn't bad, however, and it's kinda funny that he used to write for Letterman.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
What Alice does to avoid staring at excel spreadsheets for hours and hours:
1. Read boring articles about Johnny Depp and his steam-powered yacht lolling off the coast of his private island.
2. Anxiously await being yelled at for some rich client or even richer artist's phone number or dog's name.
3. Fantasize about being on Johnny Depp's aformentioned yacht.
4. Anxiously anticipate looking for a bathing suit - the only shopping I despise - for forthcoming birthday cottage weekend extravaganza 2009.
5. Antipcate that most of swimming at aformentioned cottage fest will be midnight skinny dipping rendering leaving early to shop unnecessary.
2. Anxiously await being yelled at for some rich client or even richer artist's phone number or dog's name.
3. Fantasize about being on Johnny Depp's aformentioned yacht.
4. Anxiously anticipate looking for a bathing suit - the only shopping I despise - for forthcoming birthday cottage weekend extravaganza 2009.
5. Antipcate that most of swimming at aformentioned cottage fest will be midnight skinny dipping rendering leaving early to shop unnecessary.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
For Tomorrow
Corn Bread
1 tsp oil
2 cups cornmeal
1 cup flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1½ tbsp sugar
2½ cups buttermilk
3 eggs
¼ cup oil
In a medium-sized iron skillet, sprinkle 1 tsp oil and a little cornmeal and heat. Mix remaining ingredients and pour into skillet. Bake about 30 minutes at 375 until golden brown.
1 tsp oil
2 cups cornmeal
1 cup flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1½ tbsp sugar
2½ cups buttermilk
3 eggs
¼ cup oil
In a medium-sized iron skillet, sprinkle 1 tsp oil and a little cornmeal and heat. Mix remaining ingredients and pour into skillet. Bake about 30 minutes at 375 until golden brown.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Apparently my Fleetwood Mac didn't make it in the great PC to MAC crossover so I was forced to youtube Rhiannon...AND WAS TERRIFIED BEYOND BELIEF AT WHAT I FOUND.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
George Bush and Tony Blair are in a corner at a G-8 conference, laughing at a private joke. Condoleezza Rice comes up and asks what it was.
“We were just discussing World War III,” says Mr. Blair.
“It would kill a billion Muslims and one dentist,” says Mr. Bush.
“Why a dentist?” asks Ms. Rice.
“See,” says Mr. Bush to Mr. Blair, “I told you no one would care about the Muslims.”
Read more here.
“We were just discussing World War III,” says Mr. Blair.
“It would kill a billion Muslims and one dentist,” says Mr. Bush.
“Why a dentist?” asks Ms. Rice.
“See,” says Mr. Bush to Mr. Blair, “I told you no one would care about the Muslims.”
Read more here.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Looking at pornography at work is generally not advisable but very gratifying.

I honestly don't know if this is interesting or overdone, or if I am turned on or disgusted. It definitely caught my eye though.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Why I Hate America
According to news reports the U.S. Treasury has approved the "repayment" of $68 billion from banks who received government money from the bailout, including the TARP money, so that they don't have to accept excessive government regulation on things like executive compensation.
This way, we can continue to reward the incompetence of the men who ran the banks into the ground to begin with by indulging them with major bonuses for shitty performance and keeping their multi-million dollar salaries in tact without troublesome government regulation. In other words, welcome to status quo ante recession: the same shit for a new day!
Nevermind that they borrowed way more than $68 billion - after all, they passed the extremely difficult "stress test" and they didn't even have to pay Timmy Geithner for the answers! I suppose this is all we can expect from the land of the free bailout money. No doubt it will be vigourously defended by those sages of free market capitalism as getting business back on track. Of course, no one wants to own the fact that this philosophy of unregulated, unbridled capitalism brought us to the recession to begin with.
So much for change we can believe in...
This way, we can continue to reward the incompetence of the men who ran the banks into the ground to begin with by indulging them with major bonuses for shitty performance and keeping their multi-million dollar salaries in tact without troublesome government regulation. In other words, welcome to status quo ante recession: the same shit for a new day!
Nevermind that they borrowed way more than $68 billion - after all, they passed the extremely difficult "stress test" and they didn't even have to pay Timmy Geithner for the answers! I suppose this is all we can expect from the land of the free bailout money. No doubt it will be vigourously defended by those sages of free market capitalism as getting business back on track. Of course, no one wants to own the fact that this philosophy of unregulated, unbridled capitalism brought us to the recession to begin with.
So much for change we can believe in...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sheriff's deputies moved in then, each wearing a string tie that read "1965 SHERIFF'S RODEO," and Lucille Miller's father, that sad-faced junior-high-school teacher who believed in the world of Christ and the dangers of wanting to see the world, blew her a kiss off his fingertips.
-Joan Didion, "Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream" in Slouching Towards Bethlehem
-Joan Didion, "Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream" in Slouching Towards Bethlehem
Sunday, June 7, 2009
As if you needed another reason to love Springsteen

Anyone who loves Taxi Driver as much as I do barely remembers the infamous "You, talkin' to me" line in the movie. Far more important things go on, and the writing is probably the least important part of the movie. Travis Bickle is far from particularly articulate or verbose. The revelation, however, that DeNiro snagged that line from Bruce Springsteen, is pure gold.
The Bloor is showing Taxi Driver tomorrow night at 7pm. Go by yourself, it's the only way to see that movie. Keep in mind that doing this results in a full 24 hour recovery period. It's well worth the hangover.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
It's Always Educational
...Living with a couple I loved and respected, I found their sex noise to be a neutral, common sound effect, one that usually meant they'd be in good moods and wanting to go get dinner soon...
Upon moving in together nearly two years ago (yikes) we all agreed (except one of us, and it was not me) that we would have a loud-sex household. And yet nobody ever heard anyone else fucking, with a couple of exceptions, among, at times, 6 people...this I will never be able to explain. While I can't relate to actually hearing my roommates have sex, I can certainly relate to improved roommate relationships directly corresponding to the amount of sex and/or masturbation, even, going on at our house during that particular day/week/month. That said, those getting laid regularly relish blaming every bad mood or grumble of those not, on the fact that they're experiencing a dry spell. One particularly memorable February night, one of us was banished to literally go roll around in the snow following an ineffectual cold shower. Needless to say, the neighbours have been giving him strange looks ever since. Ha.
Read the rest of this funny article on loud sex here. It's worth the read, I promise.
Upon moving in together nearly two years ago (yikes) we all agreed (except one of us, and it was not me) that we would have a loud-sex household. And yet nobody ever heard anyone else fucking, with a couple of exceptions, among, at times, 6 people...this I will never be able to explain. While I can't relate to actually hearing my roommates have sex, I can certainly relate to improved roommate relationships directly corresponding to the amount of sex and/or masturbation, even, going on at our house during that particular day/week/month. That said, those getting laid regularly relish blaming every bad mood or grumble of those not, on the fact that they're experiencing a dry spell. One particularly memorable February night, one of us was banished to literally go roll around in the snow following an ineffectual cold shower. Needless to say, the neighbours have been giving him strange looks ever since. Ha.
Read the rest of this funny article on loud sex here. It's worth the read, I promise.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Man Cave
An article worth reading that advises to have no children, or, if you must, just one, if what you seek is a happy relationship -- what most people are after, I think.
Darling, baby is coming between us
I love it when psychiatrists and sociologists conduct lengthy research projects to prove what we've known for years.
Darling, baby is coming between us
I love it when psychiatrists and sociologists conduct lengthy research projects to prove what we've known for years.
Young Liars in the encore last night at TVOTR was my favourite.
Bad crowd, mediocre venue, but beautiful (I'll stop doing that soon) friends, and the best live act I've ever seen(now four times)...possibly outdone by James Brown, but that's not really a fair comparison.
I also learned to always wear loose button-down shirts to sweaty concerts, you can all but undo them completely for maximum comfort and ventilation and nobody notices till the lights come back on!
Bad crowd, mediocre venue, but beautiful (I'll stop doing that soon) friends, and the best live act I've ever seen(now four times)...possibly outdone by James Brown, but that's not really a fair comparison.
I also learned to always wear loose button-down shirts to sweaty concerts, you can all but undo them completely for maximum comfort and ventilation and nobody notices till the lights come back on!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Fundamentalism
I've been told a few times by close friends (mostly the male ones) that I can't be related to on a fundamental level because of my lack of The Simpsons knowledge. (I didn't have a TV during the 1990s, essentially, though I have a pretty comprehensive knowledge of bad and good TV from all decades because I attempted to watch a childhood's amount of television in a condensed 4 year period (high school). This was made considerably easier because I did not have many friends.)
This is all to say that I think I've decided to use Magnolia, James Rathbone, as my Simpsons.

If you don't like Magnolia, we can't relate on a fundamental level. I'll argue that this is a far superior test, for I've always liked The Simpsons, but circumstances beyond my control prevented my development of a complete love.
I would describe watching Magnolia as similar to sticking your head into a giant wind tunnel, powerful enough to warp your skin and force your hair straight back, and not being able to take yourself out. The first time I saw it was on VHS, so I did get a brief and much-needed breather half way through (it's too long to fit onto one tape -insert lame joke about how long it is here -).
This is all to say that I think I've decided to use Magnolia, James Rathbone, as my Simpsons.

If you don't like Magnolia, we can't relate on a fundamental level. I'll argue that this is a far superior test, for I've always liked The Simpsons, but circumstances beyond my control prevented my development of a complete love.
I would describe watching Magnolia as similar to sticking your head into a giant wind tunnel, powerful enough to warp your skin and force your hair straight back, and not being able to take yourself out. The first time I saw it was on VHS, so I did get a brief and much-needed breather half way through (it's too long to fit onto one tape -insert lame joke about how long it is here -).
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sex (Advice) Addict
No big surprise, I have an (unhealthy?) obsession with sex advice columns, podcasts, books, youtube videos, mostly by Dan Savage. Actually, entirely by Savage. Savage always rips into young and coming college sex advice columnists after giving them helpful advice about how to be better advisors (don't talk about your sex life -- even though he sort of does this all the time...) by savagely informing them that America doesn't need, and won't need, another one for many years, thanks to the wonders of syndication.
The few alternative colums I've read to Savage Love have been worth the read, with the notable exception of Sex Advice by Sasha in Eye Weekly. I violently hate her column, her advice, and, if I ever meet her, probably her person. All her advice ever results in is "blah blah blah buy this vibrator from the store my friend runs..." Gee thanks Sasha, we really needed you to tell us that's a good idea.
This week's column, however, completely contradicts all of what I have just argued. Titled Mrs. Robinson, I am trying to seduce you, a loyal reader writes in about a young man with a MILF fetish, and is therefore a regular on a number of MILF porn sites. While this fact alone is nothing shocking or abnormal, the fact that the letter is written by HIS MOM (and possibly his ultimate MILF?) makes this letter hilarious. She is the one who discovers her son's MILF porn addiction, and while she fully expected to find porn on his computer, and didn't have a problem with this, she is now paranoid that she is her son's literal number one MILF.
I'd suggest at this point to read the article yourself, but wish to make one last point. Sasha, in her typical moronic style, fails to ask her reader the most important question: Is she attractive? Or, more appropriately, is she a MILF?
(Oh and my apologies to the Chief. I know you're a big Sasha fan.)
The few alternative colums I've read to Savage Love have been worth the read, with the notable exception of Sex Advice by Sasha in Eye Weekly. I violently hate her column, her advice, and, if I ever meet her, probably her person. All her advice ever results in is "blah blah blah buy this vibrator from the store my friend runs..." Gee thanks Sasha, we really needed you to tell us that's a good idea.
This week's column, however, completely contradicts all of what I have just argued. Titled Mrs. Robinson, I am trying to seduce you, a loyal reader writes in about a young man with a MILF fetish, and is therefore a regular on a number of MILF porn sites. While this fact alone is nothing shocking or abnormal, the fact that the letter is written by HIS MOM (and possibly his ultimate MILF?) makes this letter hilarious. She is the one who discovers her son's MILF porn addiction, and while she fully expected to find porn on his computer, and didn't have a problem with this, she is now paranoid that she is her son's literal number one MILF.
I'd suggest at this point to read the article yourself, but wish to make one last point. Sasha, in her typical moronic style, fails to ask her reader the most important question: Is she attractive? Or, more appropriately, is she a MILF?
(Oh and my apologies to the Chief. I know you're a big Sasha fan.)
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